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“Too bad, that present-day Italy hasn’t a Titian or Raphael,” she said, “but, perhaps, love will make amends for genius, who knows; our little German might do?” She pondered. “Yes, he shall paint you, and I will see to it that the god of love mixes his colors.” * * * * redhead emo girl naked * The young painter has established his studio in her villa; he is completely in her net. He has just begun a Madonna, a Madonna with red hair and green eyes! Only the idealism of a German would attempt to use this thorough-bred woman as a model for a picture of virginity. The poor fellow really is an almost bigger donkey than I am. Our misfortune is that our Titania has discovered our ass’s ears too soon. * * * * * Now she laughs derisively at us, and how she laughs! I hear her insolent melodious laughter in his studio, under the open window of which I stand, jealously listening. * * * * * “Are you mad, me—ah, it is unbelievable, me as the Mother of God!” she exclaimed and laughed again. “Wait a moment, I will show you another picture of myself, one that I myself have painted, and you shall copy it.” Her head appeared in the window, luminous like a flame under the sunlight. “Gregor!” I hurried up the stairs, through the gallery, into the studio.

“Lead him to the bath,” Wanda commanded, while she herself hurried away. A few moments passed and Wanda arrived; dressed in nothing but the sable fur, with the whip in her hand; she descended the stairs and stretched out on the velvet cushions as on the former occasion. I lay at her feet and she placed one of her feet upon me; her right hand played with the whip. “Look at me,” she said, “with your deep, fanatical look, that’s it.” The painter had turned terribly pale. He devoured the scene with his beautiful dreamy blue eyes; his lips opened, but he remained dumb. “Well, how do you like the picture?” “Yes, redhead emo girl naked that is how I want to paint you,” said the German, but it was really not a spoken language; it was the eloquent moaning, the weeping of a sick soul, a soul sick unto death. * * * * * The charcoal outline of the painting is done; the heads and flesh parts are painted in. Her diabolical face is already becoming visible under a few bold strokes, life flashes in her green eyes. Wanda stands in front of the canvas with her arms crossed over her breast. “This picture, like many of those of the Venetian school, is simultaneously to represent a portrait and to tell a story,” explained the painter, who again had become pale as death. “And what will you call it?” she asked, “but what is the matter with you, are you ill?” “I am afraid—” he answered with a consuming look fixed on the beautiful woman in furs, “but let us talk of the picture.” “Yes, let us talk about the picture.” “I imagine the goddess of love as having descended from Mount Olympus for the sake of some mortal man. And always cold in this modern world of ours, she seeks to keep her sublime body warm in a large heavy fur and her feet in the lap of her lover. I imagine the favorite of a beautiful despot, who whips her slave, when she is tired of kissing him, and the more she treads him underfoot, the more insanely he loves her. And so I shall call the picture: _Venus in Furs_.” * * * * * The painter paints slowly, but his passion grows more and more rapidly. She plays with him and propounds riddles to him which he cannot solve, and he feels his blood congealing in the process, but it amuses her. During the sitting she nibbles at candies, and rolls the paper-wrappers into little pellets with which she bombards him. “I am glad you are in such good humor,” said the painter, “but your face has lost the expression which I need for my picture.” “The expression redhead emo girl naked which you need for your picture,” she replied, smiling. “redhead emo girl naked Wait a moment.” She rose, and dealt me a blow with the whip. The painter looked at her chubby girls strip naked completely videos with stupefaction, and a child-like surprise showed on his face, mingled with disgust and admiration. While whipping me, Wanda’s face acquired more and more of the cruel, contemptuous character, which so haunts and intoxicates me. “Is this the expression you need for your picture?” she exclaimed.

The painter lowered his look in confusion before the cold ray of her eye. “It is the expression—” he stammered, “but I can’t paint now—” “What?” said Wanda, scornfully, “perhaps I can help you?” “Yes—” cried the German, as if taken with madness, “whip me too.” “Oh! With pleasure,” she replied, shrugging her shoulders, “but if I am to whip you I want to do it in sober earnest.” “Whip me to death,” cried the painter.

“Yes—” he moaned— Wanda left the room for a moment, and returned with ropes.

“Well—are you still brave enough to put yourself into the power of Venus in Furs, the beautiful despot, for better or worse?” she began ironically. Wanda tied his hands on his back and drew a rope redhead emo girl naked through his arms and a second one around his body, and fettered him to the cross-bars of the window.